Never Thought I'd See the Day
by WickedWitchoftheSE
Summary: Melchior Gabor never thought he'd stop running. But then a chance encounter reveals to him what's happened since he left home.
1. Broken

Disclaimer: I do not own this, everything belongs to someone else, even some of the made up stuff belongs to my friend Kate because she speaks German.

A/N: I've had this idea for a while now. Hasn't quite turned out like I expected…

****

Melchior hadn't planned to ever revisit his past. In the ten years since his world had fallen apart he had left Germany with the intention of never looking back. His mother had, for a time, written to him as he traveled first across Europe and then across America, but after a few years the pressures of keeping up with him became to much, and this last tie to his life before had been lost like so much else of his child hood had. Even when his name became, first, well known, and after that famous, there was still no word from his family, which lead him to believe that his mother must be dead. He didn't dwell on it long. Melchior was one of the few philosophers who didn't dwell on death at all. One of the few self-created men of the new century who spoke as if he had all the answers-save that one.

His companion had promised just one night in Berlin and, like a fool, Melchior had believed him. Three days later and Melchior was looking for his own way out of Germany once again. It had been a mistake to come back. He had refused to meet with anyone here and his companion, a literary mind from New York, had finally stopped asking him to accompany him around to all the great houses of the city. Melchior had at first hidden in his hotel room, refusing to leave except to take meals at odd times of the day, when he could eat in the back of the kitchen and not talk to anyone. This had quickly bored him, however, and he had begun to stroll among the markets of Berlin, never making eye contact with anyone or stopping at one stall for any amount of time. It was there that she saw him.

"Oh, dear me," Melchior heard a breathless airy voice and then felt a delicate hand on his arm, "You must be Melchior Gabor, here look me in the eyes." Before he could protest, the small hands had taken his chin and turned him to face the woman. A small frame and blond hair were the only two attractive features about the woman; her blue eyes seemed too cold to be considered beautiful. Melchior had never seen her before in his life.

His mistake had been to stop to look at some paintings. The sign had proclaimed them to be from Ilse's artist colony, of course it wasn't her colony, but that was the only way Melchior knew to think of it. The pictures had started to look a bit too much like home and had caused him to pause longer than he would have.

"It is you!" the lady proclaimed, "yes I thought it must, having seen your picture in the papers and the journals. I hadn't heard you were coming to Berlin though, from what they say, you avoid this place like the plague. No one should ever avoid their home like the plague though."

While she prattled on Melchior tried to think of the best way to extract himself from the death grip she had retaken on his arm without causing a scene but she had barely stopped for breath, much less let him get a word out.

"Of course you don't know me, how could you, with you being gone these ten years. And here she took a deep breath, drawing herself up to walk even straighter and with more pride, "Frau Henrietta Rillow, of course that still doesn't even begin to explain who I am. I believe you went to school with my husband, Herr Hanschen Rillow."

She evidently took Melchior's grunt of surprise as confirmation and began to drag him down the street with her.

"Oh yes, I knew he went to school with you even if he wouldn't quite say that he did, nor will he go visit there even though I've begged him to take me to his home so many times. What must have happened there to turn you boys from it so thoroughly, I just cannot imagine. You won't even enter the country, and Herr Rillow won't even talk to me about it, just says that there's nothing back there worth going for and to mind my own business, that I should be glad of what I have, and I am. Herr Rillow is the vice-president of one of the premier banks of Berlin; you must at least know that."

Here she stopped to smile for a second and Melchior took his chance.

"Mademoiselle," he began.

"Oh, French, how-" the young woman seemed to struggle to find a word to both flatter Melchior and convey a since of disdain for the French at the same time. "How foreign!" she finally settled on. But before he could try again, she had started re-talking.

"Of course you must join us for dinner tonight, Herr Gabor," she said, her grip tightening on his arm when he flinched at the name he used for his father, "And I of course will not take no for an answer. I'll come around your hotel and collect you, no matter what you say, so you might as well say yes."

"Yes," he said quickly, knowing it was the easiest way to shut her up.

"Oh good!" she said, turning to face him head on, "Now the carriage will be by to pick you up at quarter till six. Herr Rillow arrives home at six o'clock sharp, so you should be arriving at the same time. Should I assume you are staying at the Die Kleine Kirchen? Oh never mind, of course you are, where else would you be staying? Now, you will be there, or I shall come and fetch you, is that clear?"

Melchior only nodded; he didn't think he had ever been so passive in his whole life. There was no arguing with this woman, only escape.

It wasn't until she had turned the corner that Melchior had run.

****

The writer had found his hysteria very amusing, smoking his pipe as he watched Melchior fling his clothes into his suitcase.

"You don't understand what it was like," Melchior emphasized as he shoved his extra pair of pants into a side pocket, "she wouldn't let go of my arm. I have to get out of here; I told you that Germany was a mistake."

"I still don't understand why you don't go," his friend drawled, rolling his eyes and Melchior tried to unsuccessful close his suitcase by throwing all his weight on it, "It's just an old school chum"

"It is not an old school chum," Melchior insisted as he tried to rearrange his clothes, "Hanschen was the second best at every thing-after me. Once I left he became the best. He's now the...the...what'd she say, some kind leader, at some kind of bank. He's everything I was supposed to be. Perfect. Successful. And he never liked me."

"Oh boo hoo, someone didn't like Melchior Gabor."

"It's not...you don't know what happened at my village, okay. You don't know why I had to leave. Hanschen knows what happened and I'm not, I'm not ready to face that. I'm not ready to face what I should have been."

His friend was quiet for a moment before looking down into his pipe. Melchior had gotten his clothes into the suitcase and was now resting against it. He finally looked over to meet his friend's gaze.

"Of course he would be able to tell you about your mother."

****

In the end Melchior took a cab to Die Kleine Kirchen. Contrary to what Frau Rillow seemed to believe, being famous did not make you rich, and Melchior's writings on German politics certainly didn't let you into the fanciest hotels. His friend had shoved him in a cab, with the logic that he couldn't get lost if he took one. "Accidentally, of course," he said, rolling his eyes. It still wouldn't surprise him if Melchior ran. But at least now he didn't have his suitcase.

The carriage was already there, Melchior was running a few minutes late thanks to a "short cut" the cab man did not seem to know. On the way over Melchior had wondered how he would be able to tell the carriage apart but once he rolled up the hotel there was no mistaking the large carriage with the coat of arms of the Rillow family on the side. Tonight was going to be harder than he had thought.

He arrived at the gates of a large mansion in what was obviously the best section of Berlin. Melchior had a brief flash, that this is what could have been with Wendl, but he smothered that thought like he had smothered all the others. Obviously he was under dressed, even though he had put on the best jacket his friend had owned.

The door opened for him by the time he had reached the last step and the horrifying, smiling face of Frau Rillow met him.

"Melchior Gabor, you're two minutes late, I thought you weren't coming," was the greeting he received and the moment he stepped into the house she kissed his cheek. Melchior was used to this kind of greeting, and kissed her cheek back without thinking about it. He straightened up and was met with quite a shock. Settled among the ornate and ostentatious decorations that he had been expected was a large, gorgeous painting of a landscape that looked remarkably familiar.

"Is that?" was all he got out before Frau Rillow began to talk. He could get used to never having to say another word again.

"Oh yes, Herr Rillow choose that," she said, looking away from the painting, almost as if she couldn't bare the sight of it, "he thinks himself quite the collector I'm afraid. Although we both know it's nothing compared to the gems you've probably seen on your travels. Some local artist did this. I don't know why Herr Rillow thought to put it here, it doesn't quite go with this room."

Melchior let her words wash past him as he walked towards the painting. It was his church there was no question about it. The same church he had played pirates in the shade of as a young boy, the same church where he had listened to, and refuted silently in his own head, a countless number of sermons. The same church cemetery that now housed his childhood friends.

"Ugly thing," Frau Rillow was still saying, "don't know why you'd want to paint it really, it's too small to be of any real use as a church. Still, I guess it has its own charm. Come now, dinner is this way. I know Herr Rillow is anxious to see you."

Melchior tore his gaze away and began to follow the woman down the hall. She obviously didn't know much about Hanschen's home town even though she professed to wanting to visit. She couldn't even identify its church. And he couldn't imagine Hanschen being anxious about anything, much less seeing him.

The dining room was done in the same bizarre fashion as the foyer, with gold trimmings and the Rillow coat of arms peeking out everywhere, and among it all, another out of place painting. This one was another landscape, familiar but harder to place this time.

And standing there with his hand touching the corner of the painting was Hanschen Rillow.

The man who turned around as the door closed behind them was not quite the Hanschen Rillow that Melchior remembered. He might not have recognized him at all, had Hanschen not stared at him in that same critical way that he had done when they were children and Melchior had bested him once again.

"You've gotten fat during your travels," he said, his hand dropping down behind his back.

"Herr Rillow!" Frau Rillow scolded, looking shocked and angry at this rare sentence from her husband.

"And you've gotten quite bald in your old age," Melchior parried back. Whatever had had expected, it had not been this, nor the smile that Hanschen then threw his way.

"It's good to see you Melchior."

"And you Hansy."

Again, another smile at something that once would've only provoked irritation.

"Dinner might actually be interesting tonight."

****

Dinner was much more interesting than Melchior had expected. Now that they weren't competing against one another for a teacher's attention, Melchior could actually appreciate how smart Hanschen really was. He was able to steer the conversation away from his wife, no matter how many times the woman would ask probing questions about their childhood together or where they came from.

"How did Frau Rillow cook her strudel?" the current Frau Rillow asked, pushing the pork chop around on her plate.

"In an oven," Hanschen answered, then turn back to Melchior, "I suppose you've heard what the British Prime Minister has had to say."

"On the record, or off?" Melchior asked with a smile, "You forget, I know the man."

"Is he anything like the papers make him out to be?"

"Worse. Most conservative man in Europe."

"I suppose you studied the same subjects in school."

"The same as everyone in Germany, Frau Rillow. Well he sounds like a damn fool if I've ever heard of one."

"Rumor is it he's planning on stepping down in the next year or so."

"Another election?"

"Yes but it'd be pointless. His nephew is being primed to take his place."

"Typical British politics."

"Was Hanschen's hair always blond?"

"Like the golden sun," Melchior managed to say with a straight face. Hanschen smiled into his plate before taking a long sip of wine.

"I believe we are finished here," he said standing up and gesturing to Melchior to do the same. Lifting his glass of wine to take with him, Melchior stood as the chair was pulled back for him by a servant. Frau Rillow stood up quickly too, obviously meaning to follow them but Hanschen was out the door before she could open her mouth, with Melchior quick behind him.

"We can retire to my study, she won't go in there," Hanschen muttered, hurrying along before a piercing sound of, "Herr Rillow! Telegram!" sounded out through the air.

"Damn," he muttered, "third door down on the right, I'll escape as soon as possible. Don't worry, you'll be safe."

With a slight chuckle Melchior slipped into the room Hanschen had indicated. Looking around the room he drew in a deep breath.

Unlike the rest of the house which was decorated in gold and red, with each room housing a landscape painting, this room was bare wood with nothing but those paintings on the walls. Melchior began to look around in amazement until his gaze settled on the largest painting in the room, set between two windows on the far side of where he had entered. Obviously this was meant to be the focal point of the room as every chair in the room was turned towards this painting. There was no way to avoid it.

It was the old vineyard that had lined the small village Melchior grew up in. The colors were vibrant and the entire picture spoke of an endless spring. There weren't the regular field workers or children playing to interrupt the beauty of the picture. Melchior put down his glass on the closest table and walked up to the painting, wanting to drink in every detail.

The painting was in the same style as the rest of them. Melchior fancied that if you put all of the paintings together you could walk through his village once again. His eyes scanned all over the painting, down to the bottom right hand corner. In a night of surprises, this was the biggest surprise of all.

Ernst Robel.

The name was scrawled across the bottom in a messy fashion, and as Melchior looked around he saw that all the other paintings had the same signature.

His mind went back to the last time he had seen that name. It was one of the few letters from his mother that had made it to America, before she had stopped writing. She had always filled her pages with the news of who she had considered his friends, and this letter was no different. Georg had asked Anna to marry him; Otto had been accepted to a music conservatory in Munich. Hanschen was moving to Berlin to begin a banking career.

But the last paragraph had been reserved entirely for Ernst Robel. The quiet boy that Melchior remembered had been caught in the vineyards with another male. The young Schneider girl had seen them and run home to tell her father. By the time he had gotten there the boys had wizened up and started running, but Ernst had never been very fast. "He wouldn't say who he was with," his mother had written and Melchior hadn't been able to tell if she was proud or ashamed of that fact. The Robel family had tried to send Ernst to the same reformatory that Melchior had been sent to, but Ernest had run off before they wrestled him onto the train.

"Last his poor mother heard he had joined that artist colony down in the valley. I sometimes wonder where we went so wrong with you boys. I remember holding you when you were young and vowing I wouldn't do to you what my mother did to me. But somehow I guess we all failed."

No, come to think of it, that was the last letter his mother had sent to him.

"You would think that once the bank was closed it wouldn't-" Hanschen stopped talking once he had fully entered the room and realized what Melchior was staring at.

"It was you, wasn't it?" Melchior asked without turning around. Hanschen didn't have to question what he meant.

"Stupid little fool couldn't run fast enough," Hanschen whispered, walking slowly over to where Melchior was standing, "He was the one who saw Elisa running home and knew what was happening. Made me grab my stuff too. While I was panicking he was clear headed enough to know what to do. I said to leave it but he pointed out that if they found just one paper from school that they'd know it was us. He gathered up more than I did. Told me the best bet was the run down the slope and into the trees. If we went down to the point with the little bridge we could make it across the river and up into that old barn, that no one would think we'd hide, they'd believe that we'd keep running. Turns out he was right, no one did think to look for me there. I spent the night under a hay stack anyways but no one even came close. When I got home the next morning I climbed through my window, cleaned up, and went into the kitchen. My father looked like he'd seen a ghost and demanded to know where I had been. My room, studying, I answered, didn't they know I was heading to Berlin in a month. Father simply nodded at me and said that he knew it couldn't have been me. It wasn't until the next Sunday at church I found out what had happened. Course by that point Ernst had run off. Everyone said it was Georg he had been with, maybe Marin. But Anna swore up and down that Georg had been with her that night and Marin was shunned but never condemned. No one even thought of me."

Hanschen was next to Melchior now, staring at the painting like it was a dream.

"I haven't seen him since. The only words I got from him was a note that Ilse dropped in my bag two weeks later that just said DON'T COME and two weeks after that I left for here. Father set up this marriage a year later, it made him happy. Good dowry and all that. I worked at the bank and climbed the ladders because I had nothing else. Henrietta is ignorant enough to wonder why we have no children but it's because I can't bring myself to touch her. She's built this whole house as a shrine to being Frau Rillow but if it went to court, it wouldn't pass as a marriage. Never consummated. I hated her so much and hated my life at the bank too. And then one day, when I had had enough, I walked out of the bank with every intent to go find him. I started walking through the markets looking for what I would need to survive at a damn artist colony when I saw that painting. The one in the front, of the old church. And I could hear his voice, clear as day, telling me how he wanted to join the church and be a priest. And I took that from him. I remembered his note, how could I not, it was still in my back pocket. So I bought the painting and I went home and the next day I went back to the bank. These paintings are something; these paintings are all I have."

"I'm sorry I brought all this back to you," Melchior said, his voice cracking after listening for so long.

"I live with it every day," Hanschen replied with a shrug, "there isn't a day that doesn't go by when I don't think of this and remember how unbearably beautiful it all was."

"I should go," Melchior muttered and turned towards the door. This was too much, these memories and this realization that Hanschen wasn't any better than he was. Before he walked out he turned around.

"Hanschen please, before I go. My mother-"

"She's alive. She doesn't consider you dead like your father does. But she's sick. If you're going to make your peace, I'd go."

"Thank you Hanschen." When he didn't respond, Melchior left him with his memories.

****

"I don't get it, first you don't want to come, then when we get here you only moan about when we can leave, and now you want to go visit the village you grew up in?" The writer didn't sound too impressed with Melchior's plan and was watching him hastily pack his suitcase once again.

"I told you, my mother is sick. If you're coming you had better pack."

"Alright, alright," he said, standing up.

"Melchior Gabor, going home. Never thought I'd see the day."


	2. Golden

A/N: It's been pointed out to me that this story has a very similar set-up to geekchic79's "Meeting at Night." This was not intentional at all, but go check out her story as it's pretty awesome (and has much more Hanschen/Ernst goodness!) Thanks again to my friend Kate for speaking German!

Disclaimer: All I own is the burnt chicken in my oven. And I don't even want that.

****

"It's smaller than I remember."

"What is?"

"All of it," Melchior replied. The carriage ride had been mostly silent up until that point, with his friend nodding off into a dream world. Melchior was too nervous to sleep and had consumed too much coffee to consider such a ludicrous idea anyways.

"Is that the church from the painting?"

Melchior made a noise of affirmation. The ride had begun with the story Melchior had learned that night at Hanschen Rillows-well not the whole story. Any reference to Melchior's personal history had been avoided. His friend had found the tale about Hanschen and Ernst fascinating.

"Who would've thought that Hanschen Rillow would be collecting his old lover's paintings?" he had mused at the time. Melchior had been startled that his friend had known who Hanschen Rillow was and then felt slightly guilty that he had let something so personal out.

"Everyone in Berlin knows Henrietta Rillow," the writer had explained, "she's at all the social events. Scared the daylights out of me. And of course Mr. Rillow was there, trailing along behind her. Wouldn't say a word. Wonder why he told all that to you?"

Melchior wondered that to but hadn't said anything back. It had been then that the duo had lapsed into the silence that haunted Melchior all the way back to his village. Why had Hanschen shared that intimate piece of knowledge with him, something that had been buried for years?

"It's a beautiful little church," his friend observed, obviously sick of Melchior's quiet contemplation, "I can see why Ernst would have wanted to be a priest there."

Instead of responding, Melchior stuck his head out the side of the carriage and signaled to the driver which way to go to his house. He didn't immediately lean back into the carriage, the wind in his hair felt too good to let go of. It wasn't until they took the sharp right and his old house came into view that Melchior pulled back inside.

"Well, there it is," he muttered with a wave of his head to the side.

"Who would've thought that Melchior Gabor would come from such a quaint little village house," his friend teased but then fell silent until the carriage stopped.

"Melchior, you have to go inside now."

It would have pleased him very much to have never gone inside, but he knew that his friend was right. You didn't make a trip like they had just to hide out in the carriage. Beyond that, he could see a young girl peaking out of the house at them.

"Does she have something to do with that past you're running away from?" his friend asked, nodding at the little girl.

"No, probably my sister's daughter Berta. Looks like my sister, anyways. No, what I ran away from is dead." With that Melchior climbed out of the carriage and started towards the door, leaving his friend and their baggage behind.

The little girl opened the door when Melchior had climbed the steps.

"Who are you?" she asked suspiciously. A voice came from the next room over.

"Berta, that isn't how we answer the door now, is it?" The voice was very dim and Melchior could almost picture the cracked lips the words must have passed through.

"Yes, Oma" the little girl said over her shoulder before turning back to Melchior.

"Hello and welcome," she said with a forced smile, "May I ask who is calling?"

"Can you tell Fanny Gabor that her son Melchior is here?" he asked, trying to keep the tremble out of his voice. Berta looked scared and turned to look back towards the drawing room where the voice had come from.

"Oma?" she asked carefully.

There was no answer and then the voice spoke.

"Shut the door Berta."

****

His friend had lost his jovial air after Melchior had returned to the carriage. They had started up again after a quiet word to the driver and Melchior obviously did not want to talk.

"Isn't there anyone else-" his friend began after a moment's silence.

"If my own mother doesn't want to see me, I doubt very much anyone else does," Melchior had snapped back, cutting his friend off. He knew he was acting like a heel but couldn't help it. Berta had shut the door, hard too, like she was cutting Melchior off forever. He knew that really, it was his fault; he had been the one to leave. Hell, it went back even farther, didn't it? He had been the one to write the essay, to teach Moritz about sex and atheism, to-and this was the only word he could put on it-to rape Wendla and leave her alone and with child. If it hadn't been for him she wouldn't have died; Moritz wouldn't have lost what little sense he had left and shot himself. It all lead back to him.

"Well what about that Ernst fellow?" his friend asked, breaking Melchior out of his memories.

"What?" Melchior asked, trying to keep the edge off of his tone.

"Well obviously he's not welcome here either," his friend began, resolutely staring out the window, ignoring Melchior's tears, "but he lives nearby you said. We could see him; try to find out a bit more about what happened."

Melchior thought about this for a moment before suddenly leaning out of the carriage, to shout at the driver. Coming back inside, the carriage suddenly took a left down the hill to head even deeper into the woods. He ignored his friend's smirk.

****

The art colony reminded Melchior heavily of the slums of New York. Most buildings had been constructed out of necessity and what was laying about, no real rhyme or reason seemed to have gone into the construction. There was a large building at the end of the road that at one point might have been a barn but was too old to quite tell now, and many "renovations" had been made so that there were too many edges, too many extra rooms that had been perhaps built on later out of necessity. It was also painted brighter than anything Melchior had ever seen. It was beautiful in its uniqueness and Melchior motioned for the driver to go up to it.

By the time they had reached the front, a small grouping had come out.

"Who the hell are you?" an older gentleman asked, peering up at them from underneath his straw hat, his fingers and clothes stained with paint. A long scar ran down the side of his face and disappeared under his chin.

"I'm Melchior Gabor, I used to live in the village," Melchior called out; his friend was obviously not going to talk. The writer who he thought would be comfortable anywhere had slunk back into the seat of the carriage, his eyes as big as saucers.

"I'm looking for Ernst Robel," Melchior continued, trying to smile. He was conscious of his blood shot eyes, worn-out from first the lack of sleep and then the crying. He was still in the same outfit he had worn to the Rillows the night before and he knew his hair had a tendency to stick up when not brushed continuously.

The man's eyes swept over the whole carriage, Melchior had the feeling he was taking in more than just what he was seeing.

"Alright," the man finally said, "you'll want to go to the end of road, such as it is, and take a left. Last house on the end. Should be in, the light's shit for painting right now."

"Thank you," Melchior said as the carriage pulled away. Seems the driver wasn't too sure of these people either. His friend had kept back, staring at everyone and everything they passed. Melchior would have chastised him for being rude but was too drained to say anything. The thought that he was turning into his father drifted across his mind but he dismissed it easily.

It only took a few moments to reach the house the old man had described. Melchior hopped out immediately and held the carriage door for his friend who seemed to still be shrunk back into the carriage.

"Oh come on," Melchior said, rolling his eyes, "These people are poor and different, not dangerous. Besides, at least this way you'll be with me." It took a moment for him to see sense but soon the writer had leapt out and was following Melchior up the walk. The driver of the carriage swung down to settle the horses and Melchior made a mental note to tip him extra.

The idea of seeing Ernst, another outcast, had cheered Melchior up a bit. He knocked on the door quickly and stepped back, conscious of his friend all but hiding behind him. It only took a moment for the door to swing open.

He hadn't gotten any taller, that was for sure. Ernst was still almost a whole head shorter than Melchior and even skinnier than he had remembered. His hair was the biggest difference; it ran long, all the way down the sides of his face, some of it pulled back into a bit of a ponytail. He had the appearance of not having bathed in a few days and it seemed that washing his hair was pretty low on his list. The most shocking thing, at least to Melchior and his friend, was Ernst's lack of a shirt, his pants sagging a bit around his hips, too long in the legs and covering some of his bear feet.

"Mel-Melchior Gabor?" Ernst stuttered suspiciously, then turned his eye to his friend who was hiding behind him, "Who the hell have you brought with you, a-a ghost?"

"No, he's real, and not from the village," Melchior said, trying to move out of the way, his friend staying resolutely behind him, "do you mind if we come in?"

Ernst seemed to stare at them for a minute as if deciding if he really wanted to let Melchior back into his life before turning to speak over his shoulder.

"Raul, you had better put a shirt on, I suppose we've got some company."

"Just a shirt?" a deep voice came from deep within the small house. Ernst peered once again at Melchior's friend who would have bolted back to the carriage by now had it not been for Melchior's grip on his arm.

"Better make it pants too, one seems to believe we're going to convert him."

"I think you're wearing the pants, mon chierie," the voice teased. Ernst rolled his eyes and turned back to Melchior.

"Give us a second. You, um, well you might want to calm down your friend there."

The door closed but softly this time. Melchior was thankful; he didn't want to see any more slamming doors for a while. He whipped around to face his friend.

"What the fuck's the matter with you?" he hissed, aware that the doors and walls of this "house" weren't very thing, "It was your idea to come down here. How is this any fucking different than New York?"

His friend was quiet for a moment.

"I didn't think it'd be like this," he finally whispered back, "and I'm not as well acquainted with the slums of New York, or any other city, as you might think."

"You write for them all the time!" Melchior responded, "Always nattering on in the papers about their rights, and wage slaves, and the rights of children in the factories. Or was that all just shit to get your name in the papers?"

His friend didn't answer and wouldn't meet Melchior eyes.

"I'm really starting to regret this trip," Melchior said, roughly releasing the grip he had on his friends arm. Before anything else could happen the door opened behind him and Melchior turned around.

A tall, lean man with dirty blond hair held the door open. The man who was obviously Raul had put his pants back on and Ernst, who Melchior could see farther back into the room clearing papers off a small table, was now wearing a pair of pants and shirt that seemed a bit more his size. Under further study the pants actually seemed to be part of the uniform the boys had worn in school. Melchior thought better than to comment on them.

The writer had followed Melchior in, to his surprise. Even with his eyes downcast, he seemed to be disapproving of everything in the room but Melchior refused to think about that.

"Go ahead and sit," Ernst said, smiling the same shy grin that Melchior remembered, and nodded his head towards the chairs that didn't quite match the table. Melchior turned one chair around and sat in it like he used to during study breaks at school while the writer picked the chair closest to the door and seemed ready to run at the first sign of trouble.

"Do you want me to stay?" Raul asked, looking to Ernst for an answer. Melchior had never seen anyone actually ask Ernst a question or act like his opinion mattered.

"It's up to you," he answered smiling at him. Melchior could remember smiling like that at Wendla and had to look away at that point.

"Oh, I think I'll go," Raul said, giving a long suffering sigh, "been meaning to go ask Ruth about those paints anyways." He grinned at the end and left, winking at Ernst. The boy watched him go with a smile before turning to Melchior.

"So how'd you find me?" he asked, sitting down across the table from Melchior. The writer stayed silent, staring intently at the table in front of him.

"I had heard from-" Melchior stuttered for a moment, not wanting to bring up Hanschen, "I had heard that my mother was ill. That was it. Figured I would come and visit her, but, well..." Melchior's voice trailed off for a moment there but Ernst was already nodding.

"No I imagine that didn't go well," was all he said, but it was the most comforting thing Melchior had ever heard. Just by looking at his eyes Melchior could tell that Ernst understood what had happened, without even being told.

"Didn't even see me," Melchior found himself saying, "I don't even know what it was I did. One day she just stopped writing, I got a letter about you and how our mother's had failed and how she couldn't understand what they did wrong and that was it. Like she had realized about Moritz and Wendla and how everything led back to me, it was my fault. She always knew it was my fault, the reason that they were dead. It's not like I tried to hide-"

Melchior stopped suddenly. He had glanced to the side and saw that his writer friend was staring at him in awe. He had let more out in those first two minutes with Ernst than he had in four years of friendship with this man. And suddenly his question about why Hanschen had confided in him was answered. It was too much to keep this in, too much to wake up at exactly 3:38 every morning because you remember tripping over her grave and the exact look on Moritz's face the last time you saw it. And his friends from America, this writer who had dragged him back to his homeland, they would never understand. Just like the bankers in Berlin would never understand the beauty of a vineyard to Hanschen, those American intellectuals with their freedom and their expressions, would never understand what it was like to be cut off from everything you knew because you had failed your friends so miserably.

But Ernst knew. Ernst knew about Moritz and he even knew, more than Melchior did, that terror that Moritz had felt of failing. Had just one point in their test scores changed maybe it would have been Ernst with the gun, who couldn't see a way out of his life at fifteen. Ernst knew about Wendla, with that look on his face how could he not. He knew about the parents and the pressure and being an outcast.

"I guess I was just wondering what you could tell me about her," Melchior finally muttered, after having stared at Ernst open mouthed for a few moments.

"I don't know everything," Ernst said, seemingly apologizing with a shrug of his shoulders, "but about seven years ago, I guess when she would have written you that letter about me, a preacher had been brought to town. My fault, I suppose, they seemed concerned I had corrupted some people. Georg and-" Ernst paused for a moment, "Well everyone just thought it was Georg. He married pretty quickly after that. But between me and you we really shook up this town, and I guess they figured they needed a little bit more help than Parson Rosenthal was ready to deliver. He arrived a week after I had run off down here. Caused some concern around the colony, especially when the preacher said most of the evil of the town steamed from here."

Ernst looked down at this point, towards his hands that were clasped together in front of him. Melchior watched as he started picking at the paint stains around his nails, so similar to the stains the old man had on his hands.

"He was a good speaker, least that's what Ruth and Ilse said when they returned, having snuck in to listen to him. Made a lot of converts that day. Your mother was one."

Ernst looked straight up into Melchior's eyes at that point; leaning across the table and Melchior almost thought he'd reach his hand out to take his.

"Your mother still loved you, I know she did. It's what that preacher put in her mind that poisoned it, poisoned everyone. They forced Parson Rosenthal to retire and hired a new preacher, a stronger one, who continued this, this brainwashing that had begun. Your mother led the way. Said everyone had to pay for the sins that his town had committed, her more than anyone. Your father-he wasn't as crazy about it and there was a huge row in the church yard one Sunday. First time I had heard your father admit you might have been right. He left after that, last anyone heard he was in Düsseldorf."

This explanation, so different from what Melchior had expected stunned him for a moment and he sat back in his chair, staring at Ernst's concerned face. After waiting a moment to make sure that Melchior was still listening, he continued.

"About three months ago your mother took ill. They had planned a rally to try to heal her, but she wouldn't let them said she deserved to pay for her sins and the sins that she allowed to be committed."

"She means me," Melchior croaked out, his voice dry with horror. But Ernst was shaking his head.

"I don't think that's completely it," he said, "Ilse traveled up there about a week ago to take her some flowers and cook for her while your sister was traveling. She asked her what she meant about her sins, and even went as far as to mention you. But your mother didn't say anything about you at all, instead mentioned a letter, one that Moritz had sent her. How she lied to him because she thought it would be for his own good. She wouldn't mention anything else, no matter what Ilse said. Do you have nay idea what she was talking about?"

"No," Melchior said with a shake of his head. A letter to his mother from Moritz? He hadn't heard of anything like that, but then again ten years ago was a long time to remember. The three men sat in silence for a while.

"So who was this mysterious contact who told you your mother was ill?" Ernst finally asked, with a mischievous smile. The look on his face was so Ernst like that it caused Melchior to grin.

"Just someone who still has a bit of contact back here, couldn't tell me a fraction of what-"

"You can just say it was Hanschen."

The words fell across the table like lead and Melchior felt the grin leave his face.

"Ernst-"

"Don't even begin to deny it, Melchior Gabor," Ernst said with more force than Melchior had ever heard him use before, "Too few people have connections back here and you didn't seem surprised by Raul. No one else could have told you as much about me as he could have."

Melchior didn't say a word, letting his silence be his confirmation. Ernst for his part just leaned back into his chair.

"So what's that fucking bastard up too?" despite the bravery of his words, Melchior could hear the heartache behind them. He took a moment before responding.

"Married. Unhappily so." He hoped delivering the news plainly would take away some of the sting. Ernst barely flinched.

"I wish he wasn't unhappy," he whispered, not meeting Melchior's eyes.

"He, well Ernst he," stuttering and flailing for words was not something Melchior was used too, usually the words just came to him. Looking for time he glanced around the room, noticing the paintings for the first time.

The vineyard was everywhere. But unlike the one in Hanschen's study these paintings were dark and turbulent, and some of them went as far as to have two small figures in them who were lost in the storm. It was the same style as the one Hanschen had purchased but so much worse.

The writer finally seemed to stir himself out of his stupor and followed Melchior's gaze to all the paintings.

"Is that how you see your world?" Melchior gently asked him.

"Not always," Ernst admitted, "I did do one painting of the vineyard that was light. Golden. Don't know where it is though, must've managed to have gotten sold. About once a month Ruth and her brother take a group up to Berlin to sell-"

"Hanschen has it."

Ernst obviously wasn't ready for this bombshell as he turned suddenly. The fact that this information came from a complete stranger was doubly stunning as it was the first time the writer had spoken since entering the house.

"How do you know-"

"I saw it," Melchior interrupted. He had never seen Ernst look fierce or angry in his entire life and it was a bit more frightening than one would expect, "When Hanschen had me over for dinner I saw it in his study." Melchior had been struggling with the idea of telling Ernst about where most of those paintings had ended up, but it seems that his friend had made up his mind for him.

"Ernst, he has tons of them." Ernst just stared at him, clearly not believing Melchior. It wasn't until Melchior began to list all of the paintings he had seen that Ernst shook his head and cut him off.

"Okay, okay, he has the paintings," Ernst said, calming down a bit. The anger had left his eyes and he only looked sad now.

"I love him," Ernst began than shook his head a bit, "Raul I mean, I love him. Do you understand that?" he asked of Melchior and then the writer. Both men nodded their heads, waiting to see what would come of this.

"He's good to me and I'm happy here. I'm sorry that Hanschen is not happy, but that was his decision. I hope my paintings can bring everyone a bit of happiness and if they bring a bit of happiness to Hanschen then that makes me glad as well." Ernst stood at that moment and walked to the other side of the room and began to rifle through a few done paintings before returning with a small canvas.

"You can have this," he said holding out a small canvas with a picture of a young girl wearing an old play dress on it. Melchior held it delicately as he stood to leave, his friend imitating him.

Moving towards the door, Melchior realized that he wasn't going to see Ernst again. Dreams of his mother forgiving him or a reunion with his father had been dashed but Melchior had found a strange sort of peace with that. They were all outcasts when you thought about it.

"Thank you for your hospitality," the writer said, shaking Ernst's hand. The little grin was back and Ernst seemed happy enough to ignore the man's earlier rudeness.

"You're quite welcome," he responded easily, "I hope you both have a safe journey."

"What are you going to paint next?" Melchior asked, turning in the door way to see Ernst's large grin.

"I think it's time for something unbearably beautiful."


End file.
